Sticks, Stones, and Dragon Bones
by Vindicated Skies
Summary: In which Jorun Ever-Winter is a stranger in a strange land, and Phinis, staring blankly at a scorched Conjuration circle, knows the Arch-Mage is going to kill him for losing the Dragonborn if Mirabelle doesn't do it first. In the meantime, Severus Snape just wants the woman out of his bloody house.
1. 1: To Aetherius and Beyond

_**Chapter One: To Aetherius and Beyond**_

"It's a stick."

One delicate eyebrow slowly rose as eyes of glacier blue took in the sight of the weather-beaten, wooden _thing_ that, moments ago, had been held highly and proudly aloft by none other than an old mage by the name of Tolfdir.

Said old mage immediately looked affronted by her less than enthusiastic response as they stood in the Hall of Elements in the College of Winterhold, not paying any heed to the many mages tossing destruction spells left, right and center all around the room.

"A stick? _A stick?_" He almost howled in outrage as he waved the object in his protégé's face, "This, my dear, is about to become the favoured weapon of mages all across Tamriel!"

Jorun tossed her jet black hair over her shoulder, trying to picture being killed by the twig in Tolfdir's hand. She scoffed in disbelief at his claim.

"I think the worst you can do with that is poke my eye out!"

The rather blunt statement caused him to pause momentarily, thoughtfully considering the stick in his hand; "Well, I suppose that, at this _very moment_…" he shook his head as though to clear the contagious doubt from his mind, "But, Jorun, tell me, how dangerous is a mage's staff?"

"Well, that depends, is it enchanted to blow someone up, or stick a glob of light to the wall?" Jorun folded her arms thoughtfully across her chest, her brow knitting together, "Eh, I suppose you could always smack 'em over the head with it either way."

Tolfdir let out an exasperated sigh; "Eloquent as always my dear," he muttered.

Jorun merely shrugged, and Tolfdir wondered briefly at what had happened to the bright-eyed, eager young girl he had once known.

She never talked about the events that had changed her; not with him, not with Mirabelle, Savos, Onmund, Brelyna, J'Zhargo, or even Urag. In fact, any mention of it at all, her status as Dragonborn, the defeat of Alduin, the stinging betrayal of the Blades, the peace treaty that shattered the moment Alduin's death was confirmed…all of it caused a darkening in her eyes, a pursing of her lips, and a sad shake of her head as she whispered in a quiet, dangerous voice:

"Don't. Just don't."

It had been two years since she had killed Alduin, and showed up in the Hall of Attainment in bloody rags a month later, looking more like a reanimated corpse than the living being she was. The Arch-Mage, Tolfdir, and Mirabelle hadn't even known their wayward student (who had never returned from Cyrodiil like she was supposed to months, and months, and months ago) had finally come back until Onmund had burst into the Arcanaeum during their weekly meeting, calling for Colette, because _damn it, she needs a healer now!_

He could still remember staring at her broken form, thinking that no, this couldn't be the little Nord girl whom he had practically raised since she showed up on the College doorstep at the age of fourteen. No, this couldn't be the strong, confident young mage who was off to visit the Imperial City on a pilgrimage at the age of twenty-five because _I want to see the Avatar of Akatosh, Tolfdir; I want to see the place where the last Dragonborn saved Tamriel_.

It all seemed so ironic now. So stupid and unfair and _planned_.

"…dir…Nirn to Tolfdir!"

The old mage shook his head vigorously to be rid of the disheartening memories, taking a step back as he found Jorun waving her hand in his face.

"Oh, uh, yes, anyways my dear," Tolfdir cleared his throat, mentally grasping at his wayward thoughts, "Tell me, what is a staff?"

Her brow furrowed; "It's a big piece of wood from any kind of tree which has been fed with magicka; it is then stabilized with a soul gem in order to cast a particular spell without drawing from the mage's own magicka reserves."

"And what is a stick?"

She paused, confused; she'd expected to, from that point, be treated to a long, technical lecture about magical theories so complex that even she, claimed to be something of an expert by her fellow students (or, at the least, a very, very skilled adept) would have difficulties understanding.

"Um…it's a _small_ piece of wood…" she paused, eyes widening as Tolfdir's earlier ramblings suddenly made sense; "Oh."

"Now you see it!" Tolfdir exclaimed victoriously as he began to pace back and forth in front of her, hand stroking his beard, entering his lecture mode, "If a dagger can be enchanted with the same effects as a greatsword, which is ten times its size, then why shouldn't it be possible to enchant a stick the same way you do a staff?" His old blue eyes were lit with excitement, "Think of it, no more cumbersome staves, and you can easily hide a stick up your sleeve or in a boot so no one knows it's there, and it would be so much easier to carry multiple sticks with different enchantments for when you drain your reserves in an emergency situation! I simply cannot understand why no one has thought of this before!"

"Maybe they did, but just decided 'hand me my staff' sounds much more formidable than 'hand me my stick,'" Jorun suggested sarcastically, though she was certainly eyeing the little twig from a different perspective now.

At that, Tolfdir stopped his pacing, eyes aimed up at the tall ceiling, "Yes, I suppose we _will_ have to come up with a proper name for this newest invention, won't we? Hmm...perhaps I can find something in Ehlnofex or Ayleidic that is suitable…" he tapped his chin thoughtfully and began to pace once more, muttering quietly under his breath and shaking his head on more than one occasion.

The pale-skinned Nord let a small smile touch her lips at the familiar, almost comforting sight, before taking it as her cue to leave her mentor to his musings, now that he had gotten his excitement off his chest and could think clearly about actually implementing his idea. She turned on her heels and departed, thinking that perhaps she should go find Onmund and annoy him…

"Jorun! _Jorun!_"

Jorun whipped around at the frantic calling of her name, finding none other than the Arch-Mage himself hurrying frantically towards her.

The Dunmer didn't stop once he reached her, instead taking her by the elbow and pushing her in the direction of the college's library; "Pull on your hood, get to the Arcanaeum, and _keep your head down _until someone comes to get you," He hissed quickly.

The tone of his voice was so unusually urgent that she reflexively pulled up the hood of her robes in response before opening her mouth to speak.

Savos Aren cut her off before she got the chance, "No time, just _go_."

The tone brooked no room for argument, and Jorun hurried off, yanking open the door to the Arcanaeum just as the great doors of the hall creaked open.

She paused momentarily, watching from the corner of her eye as Mirabelle stepped in, with a very unwelcome sight following after her in the form of a tall, golden-skinned elf garbed in black robes that bespoke of his species nearly universal arrogance.

The Thalmor had set their sights on the College.

* * *

"Shor's blood, what in Oblivion is Savos thinking, letting the Thalmor in here!" Urag grumbled as he flipped through the book in his lap, never pausing to actually read any of it. The old orc looked up at the Nord sitting across from him, head bowed as she diligently worked through _Enchanter's Primer, _taking notes on some parchment as she did so. "Especially considering—"

"Let's not talk about that, hmm?" Jorun interrupted, subconsciously reaching up to tug on the edges of her hood.

It really sucked to be number one on the Thalmor's hit list, and she had hoped that the gods would let her remain hidden from them for longer than just a few years. Tiredly, she rubbed at the bridge of her nose, "I just hope he leaves soon…" she muttered with a sigh. There was a moment of heavy silence before Urag spoke again.

"You know, the Stormcloaks would…" he began.

Jorun scowled viciously, "Would _what_? Use me as a political pawn to put their arrogant prick of a leader on the throne? I will _not_ live in a Skyrim that Ulfric Stormcloak rules, and similarities in belief be damned. He's a murderer and a fool who hides behind pretty words and preaches traditions that he doesn't even follow."

"Better than you being killed by the Thalmor, isn't it?"

"No," she replied bluntly, "it isn't."

"Then what about the Empire?"

"The Empire has lost its spine Urag; they'd hand me over to the Thalmor the moment the Aldmeri Dominion threatens war if they don't," She paused, running a hand through her hair with a tired sigh as she closed her eyes and wished that her life was simpler. She could still remember General Tullius approaching her after the peace conference at High Hrothgar, Elenwen glaring on, and remarking that, after all of this was over, the Empire would hail her as a hero, a Dragonborn, a woman who shared the dragon blood with the Septims themselves, and would stand on par with that lost dynasty. There had been a hidden meaning in those words, the hopeful glint in his eyes, she knew, but she did not want to delve deeper, did not want to uncover it; to do so would mean no going back.

Ulfric had been far more direct when they had found themselves alone together. She had spoken with the would-be High King upon occasion in the past, having escaped with Ralof at Helgen; Ralof, whom she had counted as a friend (had once briefly fantasized could be more than that) though she knew his loyalty would never lie with her.

"With the defeat of Alduin," he had said, a calculating look upon his face, "You will rival even Talos' glory."

"If I live," She had pointed out.

"Oh, you'll live," Ulfric replied, sounding quite sure, and amused at that, as he folded his arms across his chest, "and, when you return, I know that all of Skyrim will be willing to throw itself at your feet, and I…" it was there he hesitated, eyes flickering to the doorway as though expecting one of his old mentors' to step out from the shadows and demand his departure before he got the chance to finish. Afterwards, she kind of wished they had.

"I can think of no other who would be a worthier High Queen."

She had gaped like a fish for several moments before the blind fury set in, because she knew it wasn't her that he was seeing at that moment—he had probably never seen _her_ except for when her head had been on the chopping block and she was just a nameless face—it was the Dragonborn, it was her status, it was the _army_ of hero-worshippers that would follow her if she swore allegiance to his cause. What he saw was the way he could turn the last of the fence-sitters like Balgruuf to his side, if only he preached to them that, though the Empire may, the Stormcloaks would _never _give her, their saviour, their hero, to the Thalmor.

For they had all known, even then, that once Alduin was gone, the Thalmor would demand her head.

Her own words came back to her now, "You manipulative _bastard_," She had hissed, and watched with satisfaction as Ulfric took a single instinctive step back, "How _dare_ you! Do you think I can be bought like a common whore? Do you _honestly_ think I can't see what you're trying to accomplish?"

"Dragonborn—"

"Do _not_ call me that!" She had snapped, "I _have_ a name, not that you, or anyone else, has ever cared to learn it!"

"You're wrong."

She said nothing, eyes hardening, and waited for him to go on.

"Your name is Jorun; you were born in Riften to a man who committed suicide when you were nine after being imprisoned for thievery. At the age of fourteen, you left the Honour Hall Orphanage and took a carriage to Winterhold, where you convinced the Arch-Mage to allow you to study there, and you have been a student ever since."

She had gritted her teeth, and subconsciously lifted her chin higher in an effort to show that nothing he knew about her would give him any sway.

"You've been in contact with the Thieves Guild," It was a statement, not a question, and the would-be High King had grimaced at her directness.

"Every man has his connections."

Unbidden, memories had risen up then; of her father being dragged away by Riften Guards, screaming that he had been framed, that it had to be the Thieves Guild who had done this. When, that didn't work, he, in a very un-Nord-like fashion, begged; _please believe me, it's the truth—I don't have the money for a fine—you can't take away our shop, where will we sleep? How will we live?—please, for my daughter's sake._

Nothing had worked. The guards seized everything of value that they owned, and when her father was finally released, the first thing he had done was swallow stolen poison (the only theft he had ever committed), leaving her with nothing but a note that said: _I'm sorry. It's better for you this way._

The one memory that stuck out most in her mind, though, was that of the redheaded Nord that stood at the street corner, watching as the guards dragged her father away, and the Breton man standing beside him handing over a coin purse jingling with gold.

Her keen ears had barely caught the words "nice job" as they were uttered; and, with a vindictive sense of satisfaction, she recalled twisting that same redhead's (_Brynjolf, _she remembered) arm behind his back and slamming his face into a table at the Bee and Barb after he tried to negotiate a favour in exchange for Esbern's location. She remembered the dawn of horrid recognition in his eyes as she leaned over and hissed in his ear: "Fourth era, year 185; the twelfth of Rain's Hand, Andor Ever-Winter."

She had let him stand then, so she could look her father's killer in the face, trembling with the need to incinerate him where he stood even as she uttered, with all the dangerous force of the dragon's soul that coiled in her chest, _"You already owe me."_

Jorun had always hated the Thieves Guild with a passion, but, at the moment when he stood before her, pretending to understand what he was too arrogant to comprehend, she hated Ulfric Stormcloak more.

"Get out," she had hissed between clenched teeth that were aching, and she felt the burning in her eyes, but refused to let those tears surface.

"Jorun—" (How she would've preferred he called her "Dragonborn" then.)

"Get. Out."

He had opened his mouth to argue then, even though it should've been, quite obviously, pointless, but a wizened old voice cut him off.

"I do believe it is best that you leave," Master Arngeir stated quite clearly from his place in the doorway, voice seemingly neutral, though anyone with eyes could see the quiet fury—the anger, the disappointment in the man before him, both past and present—that burned in his own.

Ulfric left with a curt farewell after that, and Jorun returned to Whiterun with Jarl Balgruuf to catch herself a dragon before marching on to Sovngarde—to Alduin—completely alone, while everyone else in Tamriel simply kicked back on their heels and watched, fingers crossed.

After killing the World-Eater, she had stumbled down the slopes of the Throat of the World to High Hrothgar, left a blood-splattered note for the sleeping Greybeards that simply said "It is done," and then walked out and never looked back.

It was a month later, after being attacked by several more dragons, more bands of bandits than she could count, and being cornered by four Dark Brotherhood assassins, that she finally made it home to the College and promptly collapsed from accumulated injuries she had never bothered to properly treat. In all honesty, though she fought as well as she always had, the thought of not making it back hadn't frightened her; not really. In fact, each time she found her conjured blades crossed with the solid forms of her opponents', she found herself thinking, hopefully; _maybe this time I won't be fast enough, maybe this time I won't be strong enough._

_Maybe this time I will die._

It would've been easy for her to take her father's way out—she wasn't skilled enough at alchemy to create a poison that would give her a quick, painless death, but she had figured she was used to pain enough by now that it wouldn't be so hard to endure—but that kind of death would not have opened the doors to Sovngarde for her…she certainly hadn't seen her father feasting and drinking in Shor's Hall of Valour, and somehow, cruelly, it was only the thought of that afterlife—achieved only after death—that kept her alive.

And kept her cursing her enemies for being too weak to kill her.

By the time she had arrived in Winterhold, word of Alduin's defeat had long since spread beyond even Skyrim's borders, the Thalmor had declared her a known Talos-worshipper (she preferred the teachings of Akatosh and Julianos_,_ thank you very much) and sent their justiciars scouring the land (difficult, considering they didn't even know her name), and the Empire as well as the general populace had begun to question if she was even still alive.

A Stormcloak messenger arrived at the College not long after that, and she quite nearly Thu'umed him to Oblivion on sight. Fortunately for the poor messenger, he happened to be Ralof.

"Jarl Ulfric only wishes to say, friend, that he is grateful you live, that none shall learn of it—any of it—from us, and that the gates of Windhelm will always be open to you."

That was the last she ever heard from any of them, and she had enjoyed two relatively blissful years at the College afterwards, even as the Civil War raged on and the Thalmor devoted more of their efforts to finding a body than a living woman, just to assure themselves beyond a doubt that she was dead and gone. Though, in all honesty, she had half-suspected that they wanted her alive.

But that was all threatening to come crashing down now that the Thalmor were pushing for one of their own to be the Arch-Mage's advisor. All it would take is the smallest of accidents (forgetting to pull on her hood, having the wind blow it off; black hair was rather distinctive for a Nord after all), and she would be exposed.

And then she would either be forced to seek out sanctuary in Windhelm, or she would be dead; though, she wasn't sure she minded the dead part so much.

"Jorun!"

Startled, she leapt to her feet and whipped around, reaching for the lucky dagger at her side. The cold, steel-edge of the gift from Valdr (it seemed like ages ago now) stopped mere inches from the face of one Phinis Gestor.

Giving a sigh of relief at the sight of him, Jorun sheathed Valdr's dagger, and, from the corner of her eye, saw Urag raise an eyebrow at her reaction.

"Are you trying to take my head off?" the peeved Conjuration instructor demanded angrily once the shock of his near-death abated, "Really, do you make it a habit to wave a weapon in the face of anyone who calls your name?"

"Uh, not on purpose…" she sighed, tugging on the edges of her hood again. "What do you need, Phinis?"

The bitter man's face darkened considerably, "As difficult as it is to admit, I…need your…" he gritted his teeth, as though having to force the words out required physical effort, "…_assistance_, with a small matter."

"What kind of matter?"

"A Conjuration matter."

"What kind of Conjuration matter?"

He scowled deeply at her and she shrugged nonchalantly, "Will you just shut up and follow me, girl?"

"Phinis…" Urag growled warningly from his desk, his narrowed brow warning the Conjuration expert not to mess with the Orc's favourite student, unless he wanted to find out first hand exactly how devastating and truly _Orc-like_ he could be.

Phinis clenched his jaw tighter, and Jorun thought she heard a few teeth crack. "Jorun, will you _please_ accompany me to the roof of the Hall of Attainment so you might assist me in a delicate bit of Conjuration research? The Arch-Mage said he wouldn't mind if I, _ahem_, 'borrowed' you."

"Well, since you asked so nicely…yes."

Phinis gave a sharp nod, shot a glare at Urag, and then marched rather angrily from the room. Gathering up the materials she'd been using, she slipped _Enchanter's Primer_ back onto the shelf she'd taken it from and departed with a wink to the old Orc, who simply shook his head in exasperation, and only let the smirk manifest once he was alone in the Arcanaeum once more.

* * *

"So…what are we doing?" Jorun demanded after several moments spent watching Phinis meticulously paint a Conjuration circle she had never seen before. "I can't exactly help you with this if I don't what you're trying to accomplish."

"I," he began, "am attempting to…" he paused, looking up at her hesitantly, as though wondering how she would react, "create a portal."

She was immediately suspicious. "A portal to where, exactly?"

The Conjuration expert noticeably tensed, and seemed suddenly uncomfortable with her line of questioning; he knew not answering was not an option though. "Well, now that we know it can be done, I originally considered attempting Sovngarde…"

"WHAT?" She shrieked, leaping to her feet, trembling in some strange mixture of terror and rage as she unsteadily backed away from the circle, staring at the runes as though they would carve themselves into her flesh if she approached them. "Phinis, are you an _idiot_? Trust me when I say that the living are _not_ meant to walk the plane of the dead!"

"You did," He stated quite simply, eyeing her in exasperation, "Besides, if you had let me finish, I would have told you that I set my sights on something else."

"What?" she snapped.

Again he was uncomfortable, and it was a few minutes before he responded.

"If it goes according to plan, an undiscovered plane of Aetherius all together."

Now, Jorun was gaping, and it took her several moments to recover enough to say:

"You _are_ an idiot."

Phinis bristled at the statement; "You can't honestly tell me you've never wondered what other realms there might be in the immortal plane? What other afterlifes there might be besides Sovngarde? This is our chance to _finally_, once and for all, answer the questions that have been plaguing mages since the dawn of time; if we're lucky, we might even find out if Aetherius is truly the home of the Aedra as everyone suspects."

"And if we're _un_lucky, your stupid little ritual will kill us, or send us to Oblivion!" And, quite frankly, she didn't think 'death-by-stupidity' would get her into Sovngarde.

"That is why I need your help!"

Now she was just confused. "What, in the name of Julianos, makes you think I know anything about this?"

"You went to Sovngarde. You're the _only_ mage in Tamriel, in the past two hundred years, to have been to a plane of Aetherius."

"All I did was kill a creepy undead guy and stick a staff in a hole on the ground!"

Phinis visibly perked up at that, asking eagerly, "A staff? Do you still have it?"

She glared at him, "Yes, I keep it under my bed and take it out to go on midnight jaunts to the afterlife…of course _not_ you idiot! I destroyed it!"

"You did _what_?" Phinis gaped, horrified, and a moment later was seething, "Do you have any idea how valuable that staff was? How much we could've learned from it?"

"I don't regret a thing," Jorun stated bluntly, crossing her arms and glaring down at his still-kneeling form. Finally, he stood with a sigh.

"Jorun, _please_. Do you think I haven't looked into the subject? Taken every necessary precaution to ensure we are very much alive afterwards? Aren't I the one who taught you to summon a Dremora Lord?"

Her icy eyes narrowed. "No, you gave me a book and said 'off with you brat.'"

He waved a dismissive hand, "Oh, technicalities."

She glared, but he ignored it and went right on talking.

"As for what you can do, you can tell me about the magical phenomenon that was this…portal to Sovngarde; absolutely everything you can remember."

Jorun bristled, sorely tempted to spit in his face and run screaming to Arch-Mage Aren about the Conjuration expert's utter stupidity for even thinking to attempt this on College grounds (especially with the Thalmor present); what if he sent the entire building into the ocean, or warped half of it to Black Marsh and the other half to Oblivion? Yet there was this nagging voice in her head, pulling her mind back to her memories of Sovngarde, to the longing she still felt for it, to the questions that had plagued her mind when the World-Eater lay dead.

_Do I have to go back? Can't I stay here forever?_

There was still that part of her that wished she would die (valiantly of course), just so she could go back to that paradise and feast, and drink, and sing for all eternity, no longer being hunted, and with concerns of the mortal world far behind her.

And the thought of seeing it again, no matter how small the chance was, was too tempting to ignore.

So (hating herself for it, a small voice still telling her to walk away) she hesitantly sat down and found herself falling into an in-depth discussion with her hated Conjuration instructor about his fool-hardy endeavour. (She wondered briefly if fools, even valiant ones, would be shunned from Sovngarde).

"What are you using for a transliminal artifact?"

Phinis sat down beside her; "That, I'm afraid, is where I'm stumped."

"What about a sigil stone?"

He sneered, "I want to open a portal to the _Aetherius_, not _Oblivion_ you dunderhead," he folded his arms across his chest, "Was the staff the only artifact involved in the Sovngarde gate?"

Jorun sighed; "Insofar as I could tell, yes. Though how that's possible, I can't say."

Phinis reached up and rubbed thoughtfully at his chin, "I'm assuming it was originally in the hands of one of those blasted 'Dragon Priests'?" She nodded, "Did you recognize the material?"

She pursed her lips and thought back rather reluctantly, trying to push back all other memories and focus only on the staff. "Well…it was metal, I'm not sure what kind…bronze perhaps," she frowned, rubbing her thumb and index finger together as though trying to recall the feel of some long-gone texture, "it was smooth, and always warm to the touch; could've been just the magic, I suppose. It didn't flow quite the same as through a wooden staff, it was more…_linear,_ focussed almost."

Phinis looked perplexed, "Moonstone? That's the best metal for enchanting."

"Maybe," she paused thoughtfully, and shook her head at their line of discussion, "Honestly, I think it was only used for activation though; the actual portal was formed from the biggest damned Conjuration circle I've ever seen…I think there was a star-map on it, but I didn't exactly take the time to look."

The older mage shook his head sadly at her, muttering, "Absolutely no sense of scholarly spirit at all…"

She bristled at the remark, but wisely abstained from biting his head off, instead remarking "What if we use some form of meteoric glass as the artifact? It originates in Aetherius, after all."

"And where exactly do you expect us to find something that rare?"

"Welkynd and Varla stones are fragments of it aren't they?"

Phinis opened his mouth, perhaps to deliver a scathing retort, only to pause and close it as he mulled the thought over in his head; "Well, yes…maybe that _could_ work, but we don't exactly have access to any Ayleid ruins at the moment."

Jorun bit her bottom lip then, mind travelling to the chest at the foot of her bed in the Hall of Attainment as she recalled her pilgrimage to the Imperial City. She had a burgeoning adventurous streak back then (one that had left her after the dragon fiasco) and had bravely—perhaps foolishly—visited a fair share of Ayleid ruins on the way. After being ambushed at the border on her way home, she had counted herself lucky she had sent some of her more valuable finds ahead to Tolfdir, including several Welkynd Stones and two Varla Stones.

Her beloved Alteration instructor had returned them to her after she had finally come home, thanking her for the opportunity to study them (_"Quite marvellous really; the nature of the glass's magicka conductivity seems to both support and undermine Galerion's Third Law…"_) and they had sat at the bottom of her chest ever since, her appetite for scholarly investigation having been dulled by the horrors she had seen.

"I have some," she finally admitted to Phinis after a long moment of internal debate; she hoped this damned ritual didn't destroy them though, they were too valuable to be lost so foolishly, "I sent them to Tolfdir during my pilgrimage."

"Well, what are you waiting for then?" Phinis snapped, and she could see the eager gleam in his eyes, "Go get them!"

* * *

"Stupid, _stupid_ Phinis," Jorun muttered angrily under her breath as she threw open the lid of her chest and pushed aside some spare robes to get at the glimmering stones below, "Stupid, stupid, _me_."

As she packed the stones into a bag and snapped the chest shut, she tried to ignore the pit in her stomach that told her this was a stupid idea. She already _knew_ that, of course, and she wasn't about to talk herself out of it after just having talked herself _into_ it.

Getting to her feet, she headed for the door to the roof, only to stop in horror as it swung open and admitted Mirabelle and the Altmer she'd nearly forgot she was supposed to be avoiding at all costs.

The black-clad elf was doing an admirable job of suppressing his shivers, and, based on the glint in the Master Wizard's eyes, Jorun could only assume she had chosen the battlements as the route for this tour particularly because of the lack of shelter from the biting winds.

Quickly, however, she ducked her head, thankful that the hood of her orange robes was still sheltering her face, though it did not stop her from noticing the startled widening of Mirabelle's eyes and the disdainful—but calculating—frown of Ancano as he briefly surveyed her.

"Is something _wrong_, Master Wizard?" he demanded with a sneer, dismissing Jorun as he turned to Mirabelle, who had stopped halfway through a sentence.

"A moment please," she said, having raised a hand to halt him as she turned to Jorun, thankful the other woman was still wearing her hood, and, with the gentle scolding of a stern instructor (which she prayed to the divines would cover up her unease), "I believe you are supposed to be assisting Phinis on the roof, apprentice; don't keep your instructor waiting."

Jorun nodded her head gratefully towards the Master Wizard as she stepped aside to allow the Dragonborn to pass her by. The black-haired Nord breathed a sigh of relief as she heard Mirabelle resume her tour with the Thalmor emissary behind her as she slipped out into the cold, snowy weather of Winterhold.

"…and this is the Hall of Attainment; the living quarters for our students. Here, we encourage them to engage in personal research so long as it does not endanger…"

* * *

It was several hours later that the circle was completed to the best of Phinis' abilities, and the older mage was currently placing lit candles at seemingly random points, having muttered something about the stars being gates to Aetherius and mimicking their alignment. At the centre of the circle was a Varla Stone, and, at each of the four cardinal directions of the circle, a Welkynd Stone. When he finished with the candles, he looked up at her, with a self-satisfied and eager look in his eyes.

"Shall we test our theories?"

Jorun worried her lip with her teeth, "Are you _sure_ the protective runes will be able to disengage—"

He waved a hand at her in an irritated gesture, "Yes, yes; I am not an apprentice fresh from the gate, girl. Are you ready or aren't you?"

_No._ "Yes."

She knelt opposite him with trepidation, hands out at her sides and the words of ancient magic ready on her lips even as he did the same.

The circle sprung to life.

* * *

Please review!


	2. 2: The World of the Atronach

So, I changed a few things in this chapter, mainly the first scene with Voldemort and his Death Eaters, and the fact that he now thinks the Aetherius is an artifact and not a branch of magic.

* * *

_**Chapter Two: The World of the Atronach**_

The orphanage was an old building that had been abandoned decades ago, much like every other building in this particular region of the city. The broken windows were boarded up with withering, rotting planks of wood, and the doors were sagging on their hinges, squeaking with every gust of wind that made them tremble. Large, weathered signs weakly muttered "Keep Out" to whatever eyes wandered over them, and it had become a popular suspicion among the locals that the building was haunted by the ghost of a cruel old caretaker who had been murdered by one of the orphans she had often beat with her gnarled wooden cane during his childhood, who had come back as an adult to take revenge.

Severus Snape, a scary man with billowing black robes, harsh obsidian eyes, an ever-present sneer, and an equally ever-present insult on the tip of his tongue, was one of the few who knew that, though the building wasn't haunted, the rest of the story was true.

The orphan had gone by the name of Tom Riddle back then, and was only _just_ becoming known as "Lord Voldemort" in the wizarding world at the time it happened. As he stepped inside the decrepit building, Severus only barely suppressed the shiver that ran down his spine. There weren't very many places that could make the fearsome professor even vaguely uneasy, but this place where the Dark Lord was raised, and later murdered not just the caretaker, but many muggle orphans too, was one of the few that could.

"Ah, Severus…" the words came out like a hiss from the shadows, many of which began to move, white masks glinting in the dim light, marking the presence of a Death Eater. Red eyes peered out from the darkness directly before him, and Snape immediately sunk to his knees and bowed his head. "You're late."

"Forgive me my Lord," Snape pleaded (all while resisting the urge to throw a sectumsempra in the…_thing's…_face), "Dumbledore had called an emergency Order meeting, and it was difficult to get away without raising suspicion."

"Look at me, Severus."

He did as instructed, throwing up his occlumency barriers while shoving forth several harmless memories of an order meeting that took place an hour ago, though he made sure to construct a false memory of him offering vague excuses to Dumbledore on why he must suddenly depart, just to make sure the Dark Lord believed the reason for his tardiness. It was difficult to shove his recent memories about Dumbledore's earlier, secretive visit to Spinner's End far out of Voldemort's reach.

"Tell me, what was discussed at this meeting?"

Snape didn't hesitate; he'd already been given permission to divulge this information.

"Harry Potter was attacked by Dementors early this evening, and has been scheduled for a trial at the ministry regarding his underage use of the Patronus charm."

An angry hiss, much like the snake he was, passed the Dark Lord's lips as his red eyes snapped to another Death Eater.

"Lucius, why was I not informed of this attack on the boy immediately? Is your position in the ministry for _nothing_ if you cannot even deliver me information before it reaches the Order?"

"N-no, my lord, I meant to tell you during this meeting—"

"I have no use for your _excuses_, Lucius," Voldemort interrupted him irritably, shooting the tall, blonde man a glare that nearly rivalled that of a basilisk.

Lucius Malfoy submissively lowered his gaze, conscious of the fact his Lord's wand was ready and waiting in his hand, "Of course; forgive me, my lord, I will do better."

"See that you do," the Dark Lord sneered, and then turned back to his line of loyal Death Eaters, tapping his wand against the fingertips of his open hand. They hurriedly bowed their heads, and Snape didn't dare rise from his knees until Voldemort gestured for him to do so.

"Recently, a…_contact,_" he spat the word out as though it were particularly foul, and Snape inwardly frowned; he had been certain he knew all of the Dark Lord's informants, and none that came to mind would spoken of with such obvious disdain, because none of Voldemort's contacts, so far as Severus had known, were even _worthy_ of disdain. He pushed such thoughts aside and focussed instead on what Voldemort was saying, "…provided me with an ancient tome that makes vague references to a powerful magical artifact known as _'Aetherius.'_"

Severus inwardly perked up at this information, and focused on the completely unfamiliar term that had been dropped into their midst; he wondered if it could possibly be related to the strange, magical disturbance that Dumbledore had mentioned during their private meeting a mere fifteen minutes ago.

"Try to find out if Voldemort had anything to do with it; it has the Unspeakables in an uproar, and they're trying desperately to keep it quiet,"the old wizard had told him.

"But Headmaster,"Snape had asked, "This…disturbance…what could it be? What does it _mean_?"

Dumbledore had looked at him then with grave blue eyes, the maddening, ever-present twinkle long gone, "I'm afraid I'm not sure, Severus, I just know what Kingsley has told me. The Department of Mysteries believes something has shifted…something that has not shifted in thousands of years."

Even as these memories distantly tickled at the back of his mind, Snape's outward persona remained unchanged, and as unmoving as stone as Voldemort continued droning on before them.

"My attempts to locate this artifact have since proven fruitless," he surveyed them then with cold, calculating, _almost_ suspicious eyes, as though one of them might be hiding the artifact in their robes, "I want you all to scour for any further references to this artifact; Lucius, do whatever you have to in order to gain access to the Ministry's restricted archives—I'm sure the dear Minister owes you a favour or two," his thin lips pursed as though daring Malfoy to come up with a reason as to why it couldn't be done, and, based on the cruel look in his eyes, Severus was certain that the Dark Lord had already thought up several ways to get into the archives, but wanted to make Lucius squirm with the threat of failure looming over him for at least a few days in light of his recent…_laxness_, in his duties to his Lord. After deciding that Lucius was sufficiently intimidated, Voldemort turned to the double agent in their midst.

"Dumbledore possesses a very in-depth knowledge regarding magical artifacts," he said at length, red eyes boring into Snape's obsidian; the spy felt the Dark Lord running his metaphorical fingers through the surface of his thoughts—all harmless, little things that nonetheless pertained to their discussion—and barely acknowledged the urge to shudder. The urge to block him out completely was slightly harder to keep at bay. "I do not want you mentioning it to him; not by its name. You will divulge to him only that I have recently begun researching various artifacts, and have set my sight on several, which I refused to name when you inquired. Tell him that you believe I have grown suspicious of you and need to earn my trust back; it should be enough for him to help you search for information in an attempt to identify them."

"Yes, my lord."

Voldemort's eyes lingered on him for only a moment before darting to the other Death Eaters, sizing them up with a calculative gaze, and seeming remarkably irritated by the absence of some quality they could not see.

As though sensing she was not measuring up to whatever standards her Lord held, Bellatrix Lestrange eagerly spoke up from beside Severus, and he could, based on the tenor of her voice, quite clearly picture the wild look in her eyes, the dark circles beneath them, and the paleness of her face beneath the white mask, having just been freed from Azkaban not too long ago.

"What can _we_ do for you, milord?"

"The rest of you," he began, "can stay out of sight until you are needed, and…recover your strength," he said the last part as though it were disgusting that they had ever lost it in the first place. Bellatrix visibly deflated, but nonetheless uttered a "Yes, of course, milord."

Voldemort turned away from them with a curl of his lips.

"You're dismissed."

* * *

Even after two years, Jorun could still clearly recall what it felt like to pass through the portal to Sovngarde; it was like an ocean of warmth surrounding you, gently absorbing you into itself, and then hurtling you to the other end of a long, long tunnel where you would be softly deposited as though on a cloud, none the worse for wear and leaving only a vague tingling sensation behind.

This was nothing like that.

_This _felt like being brutally ripped apart by a Frost Troll, tossed off the Throat of the World, swallowed and regurgitated by not one, not two, but _three_ dragons and then squeezed through a keyhole before rapidly solidifying and having the dragons' hardened saliva painfully chipped away by a blind sculptor in a matter of seconds.

All in all, she had decided she was going to _kill_ Phinis when she got her hands on him.

But that thought was momentarily startled out of her mind as she dropped from mid-air with a shattering _CRASH!_

White pain flashed behind her eyelids as she heard the splintering of wood, felt it cracking beneath her and giving way to a cold hard floor beneath. The air rushed out of her, and she gasped for breath, vision spinning as she forcibly peeled her eyes open, staring at a grimy ceiling. When the pain abated just enough that she could move without puking, Jorun slowly sat up, cringing at the aches and sharp stabs of agony that flashed through every inch of her body.

It took a long moment of focus for her to siphon the needed magicka from her core and spread it throughout her body, hands drifting above the surface of her skin as she guided it to mend broken and cracked bones. Damn, she was glad for the lessons she'd taken with Colette all her life.

When she finished, her magicka reserves were near exhausted, and she frowned at how slowly it seemed to be trickling back into existence, as though her connection to the Aetherius had been clogged with a clump of pebbles that her core was finding difficult to dislodge.

A possibility for why occurred to her, and she angrily clenched her teeth; if Phinis had been stupid enough to use the _Atronach_ constellation as the influencing alignment for the gate, she was _so_ going to break her vow to never learn necromancy, just so she could reanimate him and kill him _again_ once she got back. It was impossible to know what kind of lasting effects that constellation could have on her reserves; at this rate, she'd have to sleep for at least two hours before they were back at their peak.

Irritably, Jorun staggered to her feet, only to collapse against a nearby counter as her head spun and throbbed in protest at the motion.

Oh great, she was concussed too, wasn't she? She reached a hand up to cradle her head, the golden glow of her magicka was barely visible, and sputtered out of existence.

The Nordic mage cursed quietly, and then glanced around once the room stopped spinning; she found herself standing in some strange, otherworldly version of what she supposed must be a kitchen. The tiles of the floor were old and yellowed, chipped and cracked, and the whole room had a worn-down and ragged look to it. She cringed at the sight of the broken table and splintered chairs, feeling slightly guilty that she'd destroyed, however accidentally, someone else's property. That being said, she currently had no idea where she was, or whether this was actually someone's house or a damn bandit hideout. Either way, she didn't think they'd be too pleased to discover her here, and she decided she'd better scram before they got back.

It was just as she had mentally reaffirmed this decision as her next course of action that she heard the distant click of a lock.

* * *

Snape walked up the front steps of his rundown house on Spinner's End, mind reeling with the implications of Voldemort getting his hands on some obscure, powerful artifact, on top of the fact he was already actively working to acquire Trelawney's prophecy. He spared only a moment to wave his wand and open the door with a small _click_ of the lock, swiftly stepping inside and shutting it behind him.

He marched determinedly down the entrance hall, briefly glancing at a muggle clock on the wall to take note of the late hour, and lamenting the fact he couldn't just march up to his room and collapse on the waiting bed…but no, he still had to report to his second master, and it was likely they would be up for hours discussing future plans.

Severus strode past the kitchen, and then paused on the threshold of his living room, a suspicious frown marring his features as he took several steps back and peered into the kitchen to witness the sight of his broken table and chairs.

Immediately, he reached for his wand, his hand closing around the wood just as something cold and metallic was pressed against his jugular, a distinctly feminine voice whispering in his ear.

"Don't move."

Snape froze, hyper-aware of how sharp the blade against his neck felt, and his mind stumped as to how the stranger could have snuck up on him without his knowledge, or even, for that matter, how she could have entered his house. The wards were supposed to repel intruders, and alert him in the event someone managed to break past them and get inside.

"Are you a burglar?" He asked slowly, unwilling to believe that this could possibly be a muggle intruder—muggles forgot his house even existed as soon as they saw it—but unwilling to risk breaking the statue of secrecy if it somehow was. After all, what self-respecting witch used a _knife_ besides Bellatrix?

"I could ask the same of you," the voice replied, and the sharp, metallic edge pressed slightly tighter against his throat. "You certainly look the part of a burglar; though I've never met a thief who favours something quite so conspicuous. Let me guess, enchanted, right?"

Alright, definitely not a muggle. Witch with no wand, maybe?

"For your information," Severus began, voice drawing out each word carefully, even as his gripped tightened around his wand, "This is _my_ house."

A snort; "If that's true, then I extend my apologies; but I'm in no position to trust your word, so tell me where I am, and I'll be gone."

"And am I in a position to trust _your_ word?"

Her reply was grim; "You don't really have a choice, do you?"

He supposed that, in a muggle's case, that would be true; but he was Severus Snape, and he was no defence-less muggle.

_Accio chair!_

A rickety old chair zipped towards them from the living room, and the intruder whipped around to face the unexpected threat with startling speed, but dropping the knife from Snape's throat in the process.

With a snap of his wrist, Snape pulled his wand from his pocket and turned, spell already on his lips.

"_Stupefy!"_

The red flash of light dissipated harmlessly against a shimmering wall of transparent blue light, and, through it, Severus stared in surprise at the woman he found himself facing. She was relatively young, probably only in her late-twenties, and with eyes of the coldest, iciest blue he had ever seen. Her short cropped hair was even blacker than his enchanted, shadow-melding Death Eater robes, and she wore a strange set of orange robes that he knew he would surely never see on a muggle, and which made him wonder how he had missed her presence at first. There was an edge to the grim expression she wore, an edge of familiarity with war and death, an edge Severus still saw in veterans of the first Great Wizarding War.

However, the most surprising sight was the shield itself that had prevented an untimely bout of unconsciousness on her part, and the floating chair behind her, seemingly held in its rotating place by an outstretched palm; and both of these clear displays of magic were done completely without a wand.

"You really shouldn't have done that," the woman growled, letting go of her hold on the chair which then clattered to the floor behind her, "Now I'm going to have to—" Snape watched the shield in front of him flicker, and the woman's expression shifted from grim, to surprised, to horrified as it faded completely from existence. For just the slightest of moments, the briefest of split-seconds, their eyes met, and Snape didn't need his legilimency to read the _"Oh shit" _that flashed through the woman's mind.

And then they both moved.

She lunged with the knife in her hand, blade aiming for his heart, and his right arm, wand in hand, shot up and twirled with lightning speed through a single motion; _"Expelliarmus!"_

Two things happened at once then; the knife spun from her hand, knocked off its original course, and instead cut deeply through the back of his left hand, lighting his nerves on fire and making him drop the wand from his grasp to clasp the profusely bleeding wound. The woman herself was knocked back across the room, and crashed against the distant wall, crumpling to the floor with an agonized groan where she lay dazed and unmoving.

Meanwhile, Snape continued cradling his maimed hand, hissing a string of expletives under his breath that somehow managed to curse the strange woman, the Dark Lord, the Dark Lord's mother, and Harry-bloody-Potter at the same time. The potions master reached for his wand where it had landed on the floor, picking it up in his unwounded hand, and, forcing the trembling appendage to steady itself with great difficulty, he traced the tip of his wand along the edges of the deep gash, muttering a long, Latin incantation as he did so. He was forced to repeat the process twice before the wound finally shut, leaving only a thin line that he knew would scar—he was no expert healer, after all. He just considered himself lucky that the dagger—which now lay at his feet, glistening with _his_ blood—wasn't coated in poison.

Scowling at the offensive object, he sent it skittering across the room with a forceful nudge from his boot, and it disappeared under a beat up couch. He then found himself frowning at the trail of blood the act left behind, and, with a silent _scourgify_, removed all traces of it, along with several layers of stains upon the wooden floor.

He then turned and glared at the immobile figure across the room, gaze hardening as he righted the rickety chair with a wave of his hand and placed it in the center of the room.

After levitating the woman into the chair and binding her there with conjured ropes, the spy, now in a thoroughly bad mood, lit a vicious fire in his brazier and, after reaching into a clay pot, roughly tossed a handful of green powder into the hungry flames.

"Dumbledore's Office!"

* * *

Jorun woke to a world of too bright light, and too loud noise. She groaned, and attempted to roll over, muttering at Onmund to shut up because, by Akatosh, she must have gotten completely hammered on mead last night to be this hung-over. She just hoped she hadn't tried lighting J'Zhargo's fur on fire again. However, her attempt to do so was derailed by the fact that her arms were bound, by rope from the feel of it, to the arms of a very uncomfortable and wobbly chair. She frowned, struggling rather pitifully against them, and even that little bit of motion sent her thoughts scattering and vision spinning.

"Ock…Okay, J'Zhargo, _so_ not finny…I men...I mean…funny," Okay, she was definitely not hung-over; something wasn't right with her head.

"Severus, my dear boy, I do believe the poor woman is suffering from a concussion, perhaps a potion could help orient her?"

"Ugh…tah loud," she groaned back at the voice, squinting in its direction; it sounded old, but she didn't really know any old people besides Tuff-deer.

Wait, that wasn't right. It was Toofie; no…Tolfir?

"Tolfdir!" she shouted suddenly, then immediately wished she hadn't as she felt her body spasm slightly and her head reel, still unable to make sense of the external stimulation it was receiving from the world around her, "Ow…"

Before she knew it, someone had tilted her head back and poured something vile down her throat, and she gagged on it, instinctively trying to spit it out, only to have it forced down, the disgusting aftertaste lingering in its wake. As the world slowly—_mercifully_—dimmed and coalesced into something she could make sense of, she stuck out her tongue; "Ugh; that tasted like a rotting skeever tail!" she exclaimed, and looked up at the two men who sat on a ratty old couch across from her; neither were familiar, and, as her fuzzy thoughts slowly coalesced into something sensible, she was mildly surprised that the old man wasn't Tolfdir, though, really, she should've known that—they sounded nothing alike, now that she thought about it.

"Um," she began uneasily, testing the rope that bound her with a sharp tug and—with habitually supressed panic—took note of the empty dagger sheath at her side, "Hello, who are you?"

Just as the old man was opening his mouth to speak, the younger man beside him, with greasy black hair, dark robes, and a hooked nose, interrupted with a venomous voice; "_We_ are asking the questions, here."

"Now, now, Severus, there's no harm in a friendly introduction," the old man admonished, his blue eyes twinkling as the younger man—Severus, was it?—scowled. "I am Albus Dumbledore," the old man introduced, "and this is my associate, Severus Snape. And you would be, my dear?"

"Jorun Ever-Winter," she replied, ignoring the fact that her name made them raise their eyebrows, "Where am I? What happened?" she shifted uncomfortably, causing the chair to tilt forward on its uneven legs, and she growled in frustration; "And—oh for the love of Akatosh—_why_ am I tied up?!"

The greasy-haired man sneered, "Oh that _may_ have something to do with the fact that you tried to kill me," he informed her in a drawling, condescending voice that rather blatantly stated his opinion upon her intelligence. She sneered right back at him.

"You, _sir_, I have _never_ seen in my life," the black-haired Nord snapped viciously, "And if I had attempted to kill you, then I can assure you that we would _not_ be having this conversation." Admittedly though, such a claim as his was making her wonder exactly how she had gotten into this position. Mistaken identity, perhaps? It didn't seem likely, considering everyone in Skyrim knew exactlywho_—_and what—she was, minus the fact that her name, at least, was still anonymous.

Severus stood up sharply, a cold fury in his eyes; "Do you honestly mean to imply that you do _not_ recall our altercation in the hall?"

She frowned at him, slightly uneasy at the thought that there was something she might be missing—as anyone would be—and more than a little baffled, "Why were we having an altercation in the hall?"

"Because you _broke_ into my house; or do you mean to tell me you do not recall _that_ either?"

"Can't say I do. Wait…" her expression turned vaguely thoughtful, though there was a hint of coiling trepidation to it; "I wasn't drunk when this happened, was I?"

"No," Snape ground out angrily through clenched teeth; the woman's expression turned to one of relief, and she gave a reassured nod.

"Good, because I'd have to kill Phinis for letting J'Zhargo—oh_,_" the woman gasped, eyes widening suddenly as though in realization, _"Oh."_

"What is it, Miss Ever-Winter? Do you recall something?" Albus asked hopefully. Jorun's eyes turned to furious shards of ice as her expression darkened.

"I am going to _kill_ Phinis."

* * *

A mere hour after the stranger's awakening, Severus Snape found himself staring angrily at the black kettle on the stove, arms folded across his chest, his Death Eater masks and robes long since discarded.

In his living room, the woman who called herself Jorun sat on the couch beside Dumbledore, free of the bonds that had restrained her, at Albus' insistence of course. If it was up to Snape, she'd still be strapped to that rickety old chair. Of course, though, it wasn't, and he, like a good little errand boy, had been sent off with a "Could I bother you for some tea, Severus?" and a "Would you like some Miss Ever-Winter?"

Snape's lips pursed tightly, a phantom pain tingling across the back of his hand where the woman's knife had cut him. He still couldn't quite believe that she didn't remember trying to murder him; he couldn't quite believe a lot of things actually, especially the rubbish she had fed Albus about being from a different world altogether. What were the names she gave it again? Ah, yes, _Skyrim, _a province of _Tamriel _in the world of _Nirn_.

The spy glanced over his shoulder back at the two to find them still happily chatting away, exactly as they had been from practically the moment they'd introduced themselves. Quite frankly, he wasn't certain which of them he'd like to cast a _sectumsempra_ on more at the moment. They were both equally irritating at this point, though he would confess something about the woman just rubbed him entirely the wrong way.

The scream of the kettle brought the man's attention back to the tea he was making, and he poured the boiling water into two cups before dropping the tea bags in. Then, casting a surreptitious glance back at the chattering witch and wizard to ensure that neither was looking, he pulled a small crystal vial, filled with a clear, odourless liquid, from a pocket in his trousers and uncorked it, dumping the contents into a single cup of tea before dropping the vial into a drawer under the pretence of searching for two spoons.

He returned to the room with the two steaming cups of tea in hand. Offering the one in his right to Dumbledore, and the one in his left—drugged with Veritaserum—to the witch who claimed to come from a different realm.

"Your tea," he drawled unhappily, giving Dumbledore a look that was meant to remind the old coot that he was _not_ a house elf. It was a look that was always greeted by those damn, twinkling eyes.

They both happily accepted it from him, and the woman gave him a sharp, somewhat vindictive smile that might've looked sweet on any other girl's face. It seemed that his feeling of resentment was mutual, no matter her claim that she couldn't remember their first meeting a mere hour prior.

"Thank you, Severus," Dumbledore stated gratefully, taking a sip, "Miss Ever-Winter was just telling me about her, ah, 'Conjuration' instructor, wasn't it?"

"Yes," Jorun affirmed, taking a sip of her own tea. Snape carefully stopped the self-satisfied smirk from spreading across his lips. "Phinis Gestor."

"The man who you professed a desire to kill," Snape clarified, hoping to steer the conversation in a useful direction now that she would soon be firmly under the truth serum's grasp.

She nodded, rolling her eyes, "Yes, him, I'd never _really_ kill him, but sometimes he makes it so damn tempting. You see, he said he needed my help with a conjuration experiment; he was trying to open a portal to the pantheon of the Aedra, you see."

"The Aedra?" Dumbledore inquired, and Snape merely leaned back in his armchair, waiting for the opportune moment to jump in.

"Yes, the Divine, the gods. I guess you might not have them here, being a different world and all. Anyways, recently there has been some contention about the Aedra; some say there are only eight Divines, while others insist there's a ninth by the name of Talos, who was a man named Tiber Septim during his mortal life."

"And your Conjuration Instructor was attempting to open a portal into their realm?" Snape clarified, hoping to put the conversation back on track; he had momentarily forgotten that those under the influence of Veritaserum would ramble without the guidance of specific questions.

"Yes," Jorun confirmed, taking another, longer sip from her tea, "I called him an idiot for it, and told him he was more likely to get us both killed."

"And yet you helped him anyway?"

"It was too tempting not to, I was hoping that it would offer a chance to return—" Jorun paused, seeming astonished by her own words, and she glanced, with a slightly horrified expression, into her tea. Slowly, carefully, seeming to bite her own tongue to fight the compulsive response that was trying to claw its way out thanks to the truth serum, she placed the tea down on the coffee table. She eyed Severus with a vicious glare through her bangs before leaning back, plastering a pleasant smile on her face. "Well, take us somewhere I've been dearly wishing to go again."

_All right then, you slithering snake, _she thought irately, _let's see who can outsmart who, here._

"And where would that be?" Severus asked with narrow eyes, well aware that this was about to become a lot more difficult.

She immediately opened her mouth to speak, and he could tell it required a great force of effort for her to avoid simply blurting out the one version of the truth she didn't want to say. "Another realm I went to through an ancient portal once, it was practically a paradise, and I'd been hoping to go back for some time."

Before Severus could demand to know what this realm was, the Headmaster jumped in, shooting the spy a clearly disappointed look that indicated he, too, now suspected the drugging, and had expected better from him. It almost made the man want to snort. Albus should know by now that there wasn't anything better to expect, and while the old man would be content to believe whatever she spat from her mouth, _he_, a man who lived constantly in a world of secrecy and shifting allegiances, would accept nothing but what he _knew_ to be the absolute truth.

Though, that meant that her story about being from another world was true. Damn it.

"So tell me, Miss Ever-Winter," Dumbledore was saying, conscious, perhaps, of the slowly escalating tension in the room, "What other schools of magic are there, besides this, 'Conjuration'?"

"Well, there's Restoration, the healer's school, it has all manner of healing spells, wards, and spells designed to repel and destroy the undead. And then there's its opposite, the Destruction school; it harnesses the elements of ice, fire, and lightning for, well…destructive purposes. There's also Illusion, Alteration, and then there's what we call the 'sub-schools,' which include Alchemy, the art of potion-making, and Enchanting."

"You call Potions, 'Alchemy'?" Snape clarified, speaking slowly, as though it were the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard.

"Yes, _Severus,_" the woman hissed, going from cheerful to bitter the moment he spoke, "Why?"

"I'm afraid that, in this world, Alchemy and Potions are two very different things. Alchemy has to do with the transmutation of precious metals and the creation of an artefact called the Philosopher's Stone, which produces the elixir of life. I, myself, have practiced the art of it." Dumbledore explained, effectively distracting her from her anger.

Jorun's expression became vaguely intrigued. "That is very interesting; you see, the transmutation of metals, of any physical object, actually, is part of the Alteration school."

"Yes, that is _very_ interesting," The potions master drawled, though it was very clear he found it to be anything but. His scholarly side had been soundly thrashed ages ago, about the same time he started using his skills in service to the Dark Lord, actually. "As _interesting_ as it is, Miss Ever-Winter, perhaps you could tell us more about this country of yours, this…_Skyrim._"

The woman's teeth clenched, and her eyes sharpened like knives as she glared in his direction; "It's Skyrim," she stated, obviously trying not to say any of the thoughts that first popped into her mind at the mention of it. It made Severus wonder why her opinion of her own home wasn't one she wanted to share. "Coldest province of Tamriel, and the first country settled by humans; also known as 'the Old Kingdom,' 'Mereth,' and 'the Fatherland.'"

Somehow, Snape was under the impression she was trying to avoid saying anything of real substance, since those numerous names only invoked more questions than they answered and ultimately meant nothing. The spy resisted the urge to rub at his forehead in exasperation, and Albus seized the opportunity to change the subject once more.

"So tell me, Jorun, how do you intend to return to your world?"

The woman paused, and something like dread flickered through her eyes as she pursed her lips, visibly struggling against the veritaserum. Snape watched with carefully hidden curiosity.

"Well," she began, haltingly, clearly regulating every syllable that passed her lips with great care, "I have a theory that I would have to determine, and mimic, the alignment of the proper constellation of this world, but it would take time to figure out which of them it could be."

"And how, exactly, is _that_ going to help you?" Snape demanded, scoffing. The woman glared at him, and he felt yet another phantom pain ghost across his formerly wounded hand where her thrice-cursed dagger had managed a lucky cut.

"For your information, _Severus,_" she snapped, and he felt himself bristling at her tone, but forced himself not to reveal it outwardly, "According to the theorems of Arch-Mage Shalidor from the first era, a mage responsible for much of the magic my world knows today, the constellations are a magical influence."

"Yes, that is believed to be the case in this world as well," Dumbledore informed her, and the woman nodded in acknowledgement, seemingly relieved that the topic of her return had been slightly deterred.

"Yes, well, in our world, this extends to the granting of specific abilities to each individual who is born during the month that a particular constellation dominates the night sky, though, admittedly there are those born during the transitional periods at the beginning and end of each month. These individuals usually are granted the abilities of one or the other, but there are those, however rare, that receive no ability at all. According to legend, these rare individuals have been permitted by the gods to 'choose their own destiny' as it were;" the woman pursed her lips, and something like resentment flashed across the depths of her eyes, "Personally, I think that's a load of rubbish. Anyways, as it is, the stars themselves are conduits to the Aetherius—"

Severus suddenly sat upright, wandering thoughts snapping back to the woman, and he noticed the Headmaster leaning slightly forward as well, likely remembering the report that Snape had delivered while the woman was still unconscious, just after he had called the Headmaster to inform him of the strange turn of events. The spy had been rather startled to learn that even Dumbledore knew nothing of this strange artifact for which Voldemort was now searching.

"Pardon me, Miss Ever-Winter, but did you say '_Aetherius?'_" the aged wizard asked politely.

Jorun frowned at the both of them in confusion, with no small amount of suspicion beginning to seep in; her gaze shifted from one seemingly stoic face, to one that bore the look of polite interest. "Yes, the Aetherius, you…you _do_ know about the Aetherius, don't you?"

"No, I'm afraid that I don't, is it an artifact perhaps?"

Jorun snorted, raising both eyebrows; "Seriously? A magical _artifact_? You're joking, right?" she started chuckling, only to stop and stare at them in shock when they didn't join in, "Oh—Julianos have mercy—you're _not_."

"Perhaps you would care to enlighten us," Snape barely restrained the growl of irritation in his throat; this woman had no idea what was currently hanging in the balance.

"Oh _shove_ it, slimeball," she snapped, clearly hearing the condescending tone in his voice that he hadn't managed to restrain nearly as well, and perhaps taking the opportunity to release her frustration with the truth serum. She turned back to the headmaster, obviously, and correctly, finding him to be the politer company.

"Anyways, the Aetherius isn't a magical _artifact_; it's the _source_ of all magic," she explained, then stopped upon seeing their clearly stunned expressions, and rubbed at her forehead tiredly.

"I think I'm going to need something stronger than tea," she muttered.

* * *

It was an hour later that Albus Dumbledore stood before Severus Snape's fireplace, staring thoughtfully into the burning flames as his right-hand man stood beside him, seeming the picture of calm. Only the Headmaster knew him well enough to sense the tension in his frame and the carefully resisted urge to fidget.

"What are we going to do about her?" the spy finally asked when it became obvious that Dumbledore would not speak without prompting.

"Keep her close at hand," the headmaster replied grimly, glancing upwards at the ceiling and lowering his voice when the above floorboards creaked, "while it is relieving to know that the Aetherius isn't an artifact for Voldemort—"—Snape scowled at the name—"—to simply discover and wield, there is no telling what she hasn't told us that _could_ be useful to him. I don't need to tell you he would stop at nothing to get his hands on a witch from another world."

Snape pursed his lips, "If you hadn't forced me to give her the antidote—"

"—then she would have no reason to trust us," Dumbledore stated, eyeing the spy with a hint of reproach, "You should have consulted me first, Severus."

"Not everyone is as trusting as you, headmaster."

The old wizard smiled, "Do not think me completely foolish, Severus. You are the Slytherin after all; I find it amazing you fail to consider this situation from such a perspective."

The Potions Master frowned, and then scowled as he almost immediately deduced the man's reasoning; to win her over to their side before the Dark Lord had the opportunity to do so.

"We know nothing about her Albus," he finally hissed, folding his arms across his chest.

"On the contrary Severus," the Headmaster slowly reached out and took a handful of floo powder from the clay pot on the mantle, looking seriously into the eyes of his trusted spy, "We know that she is a talented witch with a far deeper understanding of magic than our own, who, for some unfathomable reason, has no desire to go home."

"You noticed it too," Snape stated, thinking back to the woman's dodgy answers before putting forth the one question that had been burning in his mind for the past hour, "Do you think her arrival has anything to do with what happened at the Ministry?"

"One can only guess," Dumbledore replied and tossed the powder into the flames, staring at their now green depths for a moment before fixing Snape in his twinkling gaze, "I'll have accommodations sorted out for her by tomorrow, do try to get along in the meantime, won't you?" With that, the old man stepped into the flames and, with a cry of "Dumbledore's Office!" was gone.

Meanwhile, in the room above them, Jorun Ever-Winter was knelt upon the floor of Severus' private library, ear pressed against the wooden boards and lips pursed as she wondered if Phinis had any idea what he had gotten her into.

* * *

So, there it is, tell me what you think! Please! Oh, and I think Bellatrix and the other DEs aren't broken out of Azkaban until later in the 5th book, but since this is going to be AU anyways, I figured it wouldn't matter too much.


End file.
